


If You're Still Breathing You're The Lucky Ones (Cause Most Of Us Are Heaving Through Corrupted Lungs)

by MisterTiberius



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Feral, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Blood and Injury, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Feral Behavior, Feral Derek Hale, Good Peter Hale, Human Stiles Stilinski, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Jackson isn't a total ass, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Pining Derek, Protective Derek, Protective Peter Hale, Sane Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore Friendship, Werewolf Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterTiberius/pseuds/MisterTiberius
Summary: "The Beast is said to live in the burnt-out husk of the Hale house." Lydia's tone was low and ominous, eyes alight with glee at the frightened glances she was getting from the others. "It's big, bigger than a bear and faster then human eyes can track." Stiles felt a shiver rattle down his spine at the image her whispered words created and her gaze paused on him for a moment, as if sensing how unsettled her tale had made him."Not even the Enforcers can kill it, it doesn't have any weaknesses." She sat back, nonchalantly fiddling with her flashlight for a moment. "And it's said to have gotten a taste for human flesh, people have been going missing more frequently ever since it arrived." She seemed entranced by her own narrative, staring at the softly crackling bonfire with vacant eyes. "No one who's gone snooping around the Hale house has ever returned, they just...disappear."
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 60
Kudos: 330





	1. Chapter 1

_ "Today, _ Stilinski." Stiles' hand tightened on the door handle, throwing Jackson a dirty look before carefully climbing out of the asshole's expensive Porsche with minimal flailing. Danny sat in the passenger seat, sparing Stiles a pitying glance before his eyes were back on his phone screen. The spastic teen  _ knew _ he shouldn't have caved to Jackson's peer pressure, but he'd gotten the whole party to chant his name so he'd been forced to agree to do this ridiculous -  _ suicidal _ \- stunt.

"Remember, get something that proves you actually went _ into _ the house. Don't be a pussy." Stiles rolled his eyes at the instructions, squeaking when Jackson's hand slid off the wheel to threateningly grab his own door handle. Stiles nodded vigorously before hightailing out of there. He barely registered passing the  _ 'No Trespassing' _ sign, internally wincing at how many laws he was about to break if he pulled this off. But Stiles' luck isn't the greatest, so he was bound to get caught and dragged to the station.

A big part of him hoped that he would be found _ before _ he was reduced to a corpse.

"When you’ve just heard a seriously frightening story about a  _ man-eating beast, _ what do you do? You sneak into where it's allegedly made it's den and poke around,  _ obviously!" _ Stiles muttered, gesticulating wildly. The good news was that he was allowed to have a flashlight, supplied by the benevolent goddess known as Lydia Martin. She'd lifted a perfectly manicured brow at him when she handed it over, but didn't otherwise communicate with him in any way.

After nearly tripping over his own two feet for the upteenth time, he decided to switch on the flashlight to illuminate his path. The forest he was trudging through looked more foreboding at night, the shadows cast by the yellow glow in his hand made the trees appear about a  _ hundred times _ more eerie then in daylight. His heartbeat thundered in his ears so loud he swore any werewolves within a mile radius could hear him. His hands shook and his knees were weak. He really didn’t want to do this, but if he went back to where Whittmore was waiting for him empty handed...Jackson was sure to make the next few weeks at school absolute  _ hell. _

"You're okay Stiles. Just get in, grab the first thing you see, and get out. Easy as that." Yeah right, the day something was _ that _ simple was the day Lydia found him irresistible. Which, if you haven't noticed, was going to be  _ never. _ Stiles practically stumbled into the clearing that the Hale house was built in, lungs shuttering to a halt in his chest. The light of the crescent moon hit the blackened ruins just right, making the whole scene look like something straight out of a horror movie. A shudder rattled down his spine, raising goosebumps on his arms despite the red hoodie he wore that shielded his flesh from the biting wind.

"Alright, you can do this." Stiles' squinted into the overwhelming black of the forest around him for any signs of movement just to be safe, there was a chance that one of his Dad's deputies was lurking at the edge of the property for the sole purpose of catching idiots like him red-handed. With this in mind, he turned off his flashlight before creeping closer to the torched front porch with as much stealth as he was capable of. Which, if he was being honest, wasn't very stealthy.

The steps groaned underneath his weight, but they held as he cautiously climbed them. He glared down at the wooden planks, part insulted, part terrified. He hesitated in front of the door, realizing that this was his last chance to turn back. Stiles grimaced at the thought of taking the walk of shame back to Jackson and Danny, Whittmore would hold the apparent failure over his head for the rest of Stiles’  _ life. _ So, with a shaky inhale, he raised a hand and knocked.

"Hello? There wouldn't happen to be a flesh-eating beast living in here, would there?" Stiles waited with baited breath, half expecting someone to answer the door with a glower to tell him to get lost. When nothing of the sort happened, he cursed and carefully wrapped his fingers around the damaged doorknob. He pushed the obstruction inwards, eyes wildly darting around the space that was revealed. As anticipated, everything was charred. The scent of smoke and something much more sinister clung to the walls, the combined smell had Stiles' stomach tying itself into knots.

"Looks like no one's home." Stiles stepped over the threshold, already on the lookout for something to nab. He had to find something that was  _ clearly _ taken from inside lest Jackson deem him a pansy and get their friends in on the bashing of Stiles’ ego. With nothing immediately catching his eye, he nervously inched further into the entryway. His footsteps sounded deafeningly loud to his own ears, blending in with what Stiles hoped was the natural creaks and moans of the house. Moonlight streamed in through the cracked and broken windows, illuminating the darker recesses of what was once a magnificent home.

The only way to go was up, since the rest of the first floor was in shambles. He glanced back at the front door, which he'd purposefully left open, before tiptoeing up the steps that lead to the second floor. The damage was even worse upstairs, seeing as most of the roof had been eaten away by the flames. Stiles' throat clicked when he tried to swallow, mouth drier than a desert. He had a moment of internal debate before resolutely turning left, he was only able to take a single step before the front door slammed shut. 

The explosive sound had Stiles jumping nearly two feet into the air with a startled squawk, the teen whirling around to fix wide eyes onto the wooden obstruction in question. His hands vibrated like his bones were caught in an earthquake, breaths coming in shallow pants. He tried to rationalize that it was the wind, but the little prickle of instinct that set his hair on end insisted otherwise. For a long moment, he couldn't move. He knew that his knees would give out if he tried to take a step, his vision unhelpfully blurring in and out of focus.

"Breathe Stiles, Jesus." His voice was hoarse, the words gasped out between heaving breaths. He'd just gotten his traitorous knees to unlock when his ears picked up a muffled bang that Stiles recognized as a car door closing. His heart leapt into his throat, he wasn't able to make out the words being shared so much as the  _ tone  _ they were said _ in, _ the pair of voices were a clear and distinct male and female. Stiles jolted when he realized the hushed conversation was gradually becoming audible, which meant the people that accompanied the hushed talking were coming  _ closer. _

"Holy shit,  _ holy shit." _ Stiles scrambled out of sight just as multiple booted feet clomped up the porch steps, the teen managed to scurry into a random room right before the door was unceremoniously thrown open. He backed away from the open doorway, flailing when his heel bumped into the remains of what looked to have been a metal bed-frame. His wild gaze was glued to the door-less threshold, there was nowhere to hide. They'd find him,  _ whoever _ they were.

"Deputy Dalton got us twenty minutes. Spread out, I want it taken alive." With a sizable stone of dread plummeting to sit beside his churning stomach, Stiles realized he was in  _ way _ over his head. Screw getting himself gutted by the beast for snooping, these shady people would be more likely to put a bullet in his head for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was so,  _ so _ screwed. If he didn't find a way out of here, his Dad would surely find his mutilated corpse within the next few days. Just another casualty of the beast, all the missing bodies were starting to make sense.

Sure,  _ some _ of the missing had been taken out by the beast - he wasn't delusional enough to think otherwise - but he had a feeling that  _ whoever  _ these unwanted visitors were, they were  _ also _ responsible. "Oh god, oh this is bad." Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face, freezing like a deer in headlights when a soft whuff of exhaled air reverberated from somewhere  _ behind  _ him. His hummingbird heart jumped and skipped in his chest, the hyperventilating teen slowly -  _ ever so slowly _ \- turning his head to get a look at the source.

It was  _ huge, _ the beast's head was level with Stiles' chest _ crouched down. _ He couldn't make out much other than a vague outline and those twin pools of red, which were most definitely  _ glowing. _ Stiles stumbled back when the beast unfolded from it's hunch, the tips of it's furry ears brushing the ceiling. It was some sort of monstrous mix between man and wolf, tree trunk arms connected to human hands with disturbingly long nails. A broad, fur-covered chest narrowed into some seriously solid thighs. It's shoulder-to-hip-ratio would have Jackson green with envy, the beast was a goddamn  _ triangle. _

It looked humanoid enough until Stiles' eyes came to a screeching halt on where its calves were supposed to be. They were bent oddly at the knee, like a dog's. It's feet were completed with enormous paws and everything, the pads adorned with wicked sharp claws. It's tail was as long as Stiles'  _ leg, _ the extra appendage swishing back and forth at a rhythmic pace. It's head was distinctly canine, bone structure elongated into a snout with fangs that were a good two and a half inches long. The whole  _ werewolf _ aesthetic was brought home with a thick black coat of fur, Stiles wondered if it felt as soft as it looked.

"Shit." He swore with  _ feeling, _ gaze jumping between the door and the beast. If he made a run for it, he would be shot with whatever the visitors were trying to take down the creature with. And, judging by the sheer  _ size _ of the beast, the quantity of tranquilizer in one of those capsules would surely kill him. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Stiles cowered away when the creature shifted forward a step, a rumbling growl starting up in it's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut as the beast advanced on him, throwing up his arms to shield his face.

Stiles' brows scrunched when something soft and warm brushed up against his clenched fists, the lack of searing pain coaxed him into taking a peek. His honey eye squinted open just in time to watch the beast's swaying tail slip out the doorway, leaving a baffled Stiles unharmed and otherwise untouched. The gunfire and screaming started up not five seconds later, throwing the house into a chaotic mess of noise. The explosion of activity snapped him out of his befuddled daze, reminding him of the situation he currently found himself in.

"Okay, so...that happened." Stiles eyed the vacated threshold, hesitant to leave the relative safety of the room. For the first time in his life, he cursed the fact that he'd worn his red hoodie. He'd stick out like a sore thumb, an easy target. Stiles clamped his hands over his ears as a skull-splitting roar shook the house's foundation, causing loose fragments to rain down from what was left of the ceiling. The spine-prickling cry of rage cut off with a particularly loud gunshot. Then the shrieks of the dying and bellowed orders started up again, closer.

It sounded like the fight had moved outside, Stiles shuffled over to the busted window to confirm. He was right, the hulking beast was throwing men around like they were rag dolls. He carefully backed away from the sill, turning to stumble toward the doorway. Stiles poked his head out into the hall, scrunching his nose when the coppery tang of fresh blood washed over him. Stiles crept toward the stairs, swallowing thickly at the state the first floor was in. Crimson painted the walls, eviscerated bodies and dismembered parts were strewn about.

Stiles gagged, trying to mentally block out the grisly sight, quickly making his way to the back of the house. He only slipped twice, the second fumble smearing cooled blood all over his hands and knees. Stiles stumbled the last few feet and threw himself out the back door, swearing colorfully when he realized he was in clear sight of the small army. They appeared to be pretty busy with the snarling beast though, shouting at each other as the creature dwindling down their numbers one slash at a time. He took off toward the treeline, hoping that they didn't notice him.

"Hey! There's another one! The kid in the red!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes I know I left this particular fic to collect dust for quite a while, but I recently got back into the Teen Wolf fandom and now I have an amazing Co-Author that's going to help me write, beta, and publish this fic!
> 
> Sorry for the ridiculously long wait! Enjoy!

Stiles yanked his hood up, which unfortunately blocked his peripheral vision, but his life was as good as over if one of them managed to get a good look at his face. If they could identify him, he was certain that they would show up at his house to tie up loose ends. Stiles refused to risk his dad’s life like that, because these people wouldn’t hesitate to kill him too. If the teen somehow _miraculously_ managed to survive this, he was _so_ burning his hoodie. Then he was going to throw out _all_ the red clothes that he owned, seeing as the color would forever remind him of this whole nightmare. 

A hailstorm of bullets followed his frantic path through the dense trees, and he could only pray that his unhelpful tendency to be a total klutz wouldn’t end up getting him killed. The last thing he needed was to lose the small lead he had because he had managed to trip over his own two feet; though, the fact that he was sprinting through the woods in relative darkness wasn’t exactly helping matters either. Stiles felt like he was tempting fate, or maybe flirting with death. 

Something like that. 

On the bright side, he’d figured out who his pursuers were. Stiles had come to the sound conclusion that they were Hunters, he’d read enough online articles and books to be able to recognize a group of Hunters. Not to mention that they were going after an alpha werewolf and seemed to be plenty armed to do so. Stiles doubted that this hunt was legal though, judging by the fact that this ‘Deputy Dalton’ had left the area unsupervised as to allow the Hunters to close in on the beast. Usually Hunters had to have a signed permit from the authorities to track and kill a feral werewolf, but there were some groups that didn’t follow the code.

Dirt sprayed as a - frankly - _alarming_ amount of bullets hit the ground mere inches from his feet, forcing him to abruptly change direction lest he get hit. Stiles flailed out an arm to grab the trunk of a tree in order to whip himself to the left, narrowly avoiding another wave of deafening gunfire. The teen yelped in terror, his next step faltering when a weird harpoon thing flew over his right shoulder. The wicked-looking tip embedded itself into the closest tree with such force that the spear was buried all the way to the sturdy loop that was welded onto the end, where a thick metal cable was attached. Stiles caught a quick glimpse of the weapon as he scrambled past the pierced tree, swallowing thickly when he realized that the sharp tip had flowered open.

It had been designed with the specific purpose of being extremely difficult to remove, and Stiles would bet his _kidney_ that it was coated in wolfsbane in order to inflict maximum damage.

The teen was forcibly dragged out of his dark observations by an odd sound, one that was rapidly getting closer. His first assumption was that the Hunters were now pursuing him in a vehicle, but that couldn’t be right because the forest was too densely packed with vegetation. Unfortunately, the loud crack of splintering trees, and constant rumbling that sounded not unlike an engine, was making him think otherwise. Both wary and curious, he turned his head - just enough to glance over his shoulder - and nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw a dark blur gallop past the crowd of Hunters.

There was no mistaking that it was the werewolf, the glowing crimson eyes were impossible to miss. The beast was rapidly closing the distance between them, those twin demonic pools of blood locked onto his fleeing form. It gave Stiles the distinct feeling that he was being _hunted,_ which _wasn’t_ the intention one wanted to be picking up on, especially from a _feral alpha werewolf._

Suddenly, a waterfall was roaring in the teen’s ears. He could’ve sworn that time slowed, the world falling quiet save for his thundering heart and gasping breaths. It was a distressingly familiar feeling, the threat of a building panic attack looming over him.

In a stroke of pure luck, Stiles was snapped out of his downward spiral by the sharp crack of a gunshot, blinking rapidly when a stinging heat bloomed across his right cheek. He sucked in a greedy breath, relieved to discover that he had regained the ability to breathe. 

He realized with a jolt that the area behind him was distinctly absent of a certain werewolf, his head whipping around with the hope of locating it before it decided that he looked like a tasty snack. He was momentarily distracted from his frantic search when something warm and wet slid down his throbbing face, and he spared a moment to wipe it away with his sleeve, staring uncomprehendingly down at the dark streak left behind on the fabric.

There was a low growl to his right and his head turned so fast that something in his neck clicked. The werewolf ran parallel with him, it’s intense gaze pinned on the bewildered teen. He couldn’t even begin to fathom _why_ it kept pace with him instead of going ahead or - hell - _away,_ but Stiles had an inkling that it had something to do with the fierce way it was watching him. The amount of attention he was getting from this feral alpha was disconcerting to say the least. Either Stiles had up and completely lost his mind or the beast was...watching his back.

Stiles instinctively faltered when the werewolf abruptly jerked to a stop with a pained yelp that swiftly dropped into a deep, angry noise. The teen slowed and chanced a quick glance at the commotion behind him, noticing what had forced the beast to halt its pursuit. The alpha had one of those sinister-looking harpoon things in it’s left leg and it was crouched down, ears frantically swiveling about to track the Hunters that circled its coiled form. 

One of the men that had moved behind the alpha raised another loaded harpoon gun, unhesitantly pulling the trigger. The sharp nib went clean through the beast’s left hand, unfolding over it’s palm. The alpha’s growling cut off with an agonized whine that had Stiles freezing like a deer in headlights, skidding to a full stop to stare openly at the group swarming around the wolf.

“Someone relay our location to the Argents.” One of the Hunters barked, the words echoing in Stiles’ ears. _Argents._ He knew the Argents, his _best friend_ \- who was a bitten _werewolf -_ was dating an Argent. He must’ve made a noise, because suddenly there were three guns pointed at him. The teen balked at the weapons before scrambling behind the nearest tree for cover, a flood of bullets right on his heels. 

When the gunfire tapered off, he shifted a bit in order to peek out from behind the relative safety of the thick trunk. The beast was struggling against the restraints, but both of the fired harpoon guns were looped around a sturdy tree, which kept the thrashing werewolf more or less immobilized. It still had its left arm at its disposal though, and it used that advantage to try and pry the harpoon out of its other hand.

The beast was so distracted by what must be the _overwhelming_ urge to get free, that it didn’t appear to notice the third Hunter taking aim at it’s uninhibited limb. If that weapon went off, Stiles knew that it would be the end of the werewolf. It would be trapped and slaughtered and its death would amount to nothing but bragging rights for the hunters that cruelly murdered it.

Stiles knew he was going to do something _monumentally_ stupid before he’d even consciously made a decision, his body moving on autopilot. The beast hadn’t killed him on sight, instead, it had drawn the armed men out of the house and away from the defenseless human. And even though Stiles had been spotted anyways, it didn’t have to do that for him in the first place. So he barreled out from behind the tree, charging past the startled Hunters in order to bodily tackle the man with the third harpoon gun to the ground.

When they went down in a heap of flailing limbs, the weapon fired. Thankfully, the harpoon went wide, missing the hulking alpha by inches before ripping through a tree. Stiles tried to scurry back from the loudly cursing Hunter, but a hand snagged the back of his hood at the same moment the teen got his feet underneath him and jerked away. His forward momentum combined with the man’s iron grip on the fabric, pulled it off the teen’s head, revealing his face to all seven Hunters. They stared at him with wide eyes, features creased with panic. Clearly, they knew who he was.

“Fuck. It’s the Sheriff's kid.”

That certainly confirmed his hunch, he’d hoped that his gut would be wrong for once, but apparently, no dice. The universe really hated him today. “What the hell was he doing at the Hale house?” Another Hunter hissed, the skittish man nervously adjusting his grip on the rifle in his hands. The group exchanged glances, wordlessly debating on how they should proceed.

One Hunter with a scar marring the right half of his face scoffed at his associates reluctance, lifting his rifle to level the barrel with the teen’s chest. Stiles began to struggle in a blind panic but the man behind him had a tight fistful of his hoodie, so shrugging out of the garment and making a run for it, without gaining an additional hole that is, seemed highly unlikely.

“Who cares? Kid betrayed his own species by helping that fucking mutt. I say plug him.” No one opposed Scarface’s statement, which made a malicious grin curl onto the man’s lips. “Glad we’re in agreement.” The Hunter mused, and a cold chill rattled down the teen’s spine at the eager anticipation that glinted in the man’s dark eyes. 

Stiles should be thankful that he even lived to the age of seventeen, especially with all the supernatural-related trouble he and Scott get into on a daily basis. But being murdered by this psychopath was _not_ the way he pictured going out, he’d survived feral werewolves, a kanima, fae, evil witches, daraks and murderous teens only to be shot _by a human_ in the middle of the woods and die _alone_. One thing was for sure, getting capped by a shotgun at point blank, was going to be messy.

He hoped that his insides exploded all over these monstrous people.

A loud, ominous snap had everyone - Stiles included - freezing in place. The teen’s wide eyes sliding from the Hunter’s rapidly paling features to the hulking silhouette that loomed behind the sadistic man. The guttural snarl that had the alpha baring it’s bloodied canines, caused the forest to go eerily silent. The already frantic rhythm of Stiles’ heart faltered when he realized that the werewolf had managed to _chew_ through the metal cords, the jagged, crimson-coated edges of the cables dragging on the ground.

The tension on his hoodie went slack as the Hunter’s grip on the fabric disappeared, dropping to land defensively on his rifle. The wolf moved first, rushing Scarface and swinging a massive clawed hand at the Hunter, sending him flying into the trunk of a thick oak. There was a crack when his body hit the bark before he slumped, going still. Stiles dropped to the ground as the first few shots were fired, crawling through the bushes and weeds until he was well out of the danger zone before scrambling back to his feet to _run_ , the deafening screams of agony and angry roars following his frenzied path through the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my amazing Co-Author and I hashed out a rough timeline of events for this fanfiction, which I've never done before. I usually just bullshit my way through a plot after getting a relative idea of what I want to happen, so actually sitting down and taking the time to come up with basically the entire plot in one go is different. On another note, I'll be posting to this story every Wednesday, but -as you all surely know- I'm quite awful at consistently posting. I'll try my best to stay active though, wish me luck!

Stiles stumbled out of the woods and into his back-yard, immediately shucking his red hoodie and tossing the offending garment aside, it was a problem for Future Stiles. Right now, he just wanted a wash and his laptop. He stumbled to their back door, sliding it open. His dad never locked it because sometimes Stiles stayed out ridiculously late with his supernatural friends, and who would be stupid enough the break into the Sheriff’s house anyway? Stiles flipped the lock behind him before retreating to the stairs, making a beeline for the bathroom.

He stripped out of the last of his soggy, mud-stained clothes before cranking the shower to scalding and stepping in. The pressure and heat of the water eased his knotted muscles, blood and dirt swirling down the drain. Stiles tipped his head back, closing his eyes to listen to the white-noise of the shower. His back hit a porcelain wall and, before he knew it, he was sliding down until he was sitting. His hands shook, so he wrapped them around his knees. He focused on breathing through his sobs, trying to convince himself that he was safe...that his family and friends were safe.

But he couldn’t be completely sure because he’d _ fled, _ Stiles knew he was a dead man walking if even  _ one _ of the Hunter’s who’d seen him managed to get away from the beast and report to the Argent’s. Anyone who knew him had just become a potential target, so he just gave himself some time to cry. To let himself shatter into a thousand pieces and wallow in the unfairness that was his life, then he would put himself back together the best he could and look for a solution to this fucked-up situation.

Stiles lost track of how long he sat under the spray, but by the time he became aware again, the water was running cold and his fingers were deeply pruned. He wrestled into gray sweatpants and while digging through the closet for a shirt, he spotted a flash of red, which reminded him of his promise to obliterate all signs of the color from his wardrobe. Stiles haphazardly threw on a baggy t-shirt with a stretched-out collar before grabbing all the red shirts that he could carry before throwing his room door open, walking right into his father.

“Hey dad…” Stiles greeted awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot as he glanced timidly at the man. The sheriff just stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before his eyes strayed to the pile of red clothing heaped in his arms, his dad leveling him with a look that demanded an explanation. “Oh, this? Just...cleaning out my closet.” Stiles winced at his dad’s raised brow, advertising his skepticism. “At…” His father squinted at the watch secured around his wrist. “Eleven at night?” 

Stiles avoided eye contact as he nodded, desperately trying to hold back the endless word vomit of excuses and apologies that were threatening to surface. He was just as capable of talking himself  _ into _ trouble as he was talking himself  _ out _ of it, it was a fifty-fifty shot with Stiles. “Just, make sure you go to bed at a decent time. Please, Stiles?” His dad pleaded and the teen released a breath of relief, nodding some more, before realizing that he should probably give a verbal answer. “Yeah, can do.” 

Once his father was back in his own room and the door was shut, Stiles sprinted down the stairs and out into the backyard, dropping his bounty on top of the ruined red sweatshirt that was already lying on the ground. He made a quick trip back into the house, snagging a box of matches out of one of the kitchen drawers, making a pit-stop in the garage to grab a can of lighter fluid before returning to the pile. He soaked the many garments in the gas before lighting the match and tossing it onto the stack, the crimson heap engulfed with flames.

The smoke was dark and smelled bad, but it wasn’t about to gain any unwanted attention or set the forest ablaze. He let it burn for a good few minutes before kicking dirt onto the fire to smother it, heading back inside once the task was completed. Stiles clambered up the steps to enter his room and settle into the plush chair in front of his desk, powering on his laptop. He had some research to do. The Hunters that he’d run into had mentioned the Hales  _ and _ the Argents, both names that were somewhat familiar to him. He got an instant hit for the Hales, clicking on the first article to skim through the abundance of information about the family’s tragic background.

Apparently eleven members of the Hale pack - both human and werewolf alike - had perished in a house fire. There had been only three survivors, Alpha Talia’s younger brother Peter, and her two kids Laura and Derek. Peter had been severely injured by the flames, and was also the only one to escape the burning home. Thankfully, Laura and Derek had been at school. It was also heart-warming to read that Peter had pulled through for the two pups, making a miraculous recovery due to the new Hale Alpha - the title having been passed to Laura - who used their pack bond to coax her uncle out of his catatonic state.

While Peter was recovering in the hospital, the authorities had conducted a full-scale investigation, and the fire was ultimately declared an accident. The Hales weren't too keen on that conclusion though, so they announced that they were going to look into it themselves. Which was perfectly within their rights seeing as the Hale Pack practically  _ owned _ Beacon Hills, no one wanted to draw the Hale family’s ire by protesting.

But only two weeks later Laura had turned up dead, she'd been ripped in half. A werewolf, who'd been groomed since  _ birth _ to be an  _ alpha, _ had been  _ torn in two. _ The coroner had examined both halves of the body and filed it as a werewolf attack, apparently the numerous injuries were consistent with that of werewolf claws and teeth. Which prompted the authorities to collect Peter and Derek, looking to eliminate them as possible suspects.

But the pair had vanished.

The article went on to spin different theories about the Hale's suspicious disappearance, so Stiles returned to the browser page. Suddenly recalling that, coincidentally,  _ Scott _ had been bitten two years ago. His best friend of fifteen years had been out in the woods looking for a rare plant that Deaton had sent him out to fetch, and was ambushed. Unfortunately, Scott hadn’t seen what - or  _ who _ \- had bitten him, but managed to make it back to the Animal Hospital, the Druid immediately driving McCall to the hospital for overnight observation just in case it was  _ the _ bite.

And - low and behold - the next morning, Scott woke up a werewolf.

Wanting to confirm his suspicions, Stiles dug deeper, looking up other incidents of turned werewolves that didn’t have a confirmed alpha. There were six people total - including Scott - who’d been bitten, and they’d all been attacked within the span of  _ three weeks. _ The first attack happened a few days after Laura’s untimely death, which meant that there was a  _ really _ good chance that either Peter or Derek was the alpha that bit those six people. Neither of the remaining Hale’s were  _ supposed _ to be alpha,  _ Laura  _ was the one who was brought up to take over for Talia.

The current Hale alpha was probably overwhelmed with his own instincts, and one of those instincts was to build a strong pack. It had only been Derek and Peter after Laura died, and a pack of two wasn’t enough to keep an alpha sane. Four or more was the recommended number for a stable pack, and having at least one human to anchor the group was always advised. It was illegal to turn someone without permission, and even worse to give a minor the bite without consent from both the minor  _ and _ the parent or guardian. Which was exactly what Hale had done, to  _ six people _ no less.

Stiles was startled by a knock on his door, the knob turning so a familiar face could carefully poke his head in. He slammed his laptop shut before swiveling to face his dad with a nervous smile, lifting a hand to his face to protect his squinted bloodshot eyes from the sunlight that suddenly flooded into the previously dark room from the doorway. “What’s up?” Stiles tried to keep his voice steady, but the question came out a little too breathy and two octaves too high.

“What the hell happened last night? You come in late and I wake up to a pile of charred  _ something _ in the backyard. Not to mention that you look like you’ve had zero sleep,  _ and _ you’re late for school.” His dad shot him a weary look, eyeing his closed laptop before flicking back to Stiles’  _ this-isn't-suspicious _ face. The teen opened his mouth to answer, but his dad interrupted him with a tired sigh. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know. Just...make sure you get to school.”

“Uh...yeah...yes! I will. Sure thing daddy-o, consider it done.” Stiles rambled, beaming at the sheriff as his dad rolled his eyes and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Stiles immediately scrambled around the room, hastily stuffing printed-out pictures and articles into his open backpack in order to show to Scott when he got the chance. When he crashed out of his room and thundered down the stairs into the kitchen for a quick breakfast, his dad was already pulling out of the driveway, heading off to the station.

Shoving a poptart into his mouth, Stiles checked that the back door was locked three times before shouldering his bag and locking up the house behind him. He sped to school, haphazardly planting his vehicle in the first spot he saw. He glanced at his parking job when he climbed out a cringed at the skewed angle his jeep was positioned in, hoping no one would attempt to squeeze in next to his jeep, before entering the school to search for a certain omega werewolf.

Stiles went straight to his best friend's locker, which was where the energetic wolf always waited for him. He shoved through the packed hallways and caught a glimpse of curly dark brown hair right where he knew he would. “Scott! SCOTT! I know who your Alpha is!” He blurted, shouldering his way through the crowd. Stiles slid to a stop before the befuddled werewolf, arms pin-wheeling in an attempt to not lose his balance. Thankfully though, before he could fall, Scott had grabbed his backpack straps in order to hold him upright.

“What? Who?” Scott made sure that he was steady before letting go, staring at him imploringly. Stiles ran a nervous hand over his head, the soft fuzz of his buzzcut tickling his palm, and continued talking as if Scott hadn’t even spoken. He just needed to get it all out in one go before taking questions. “Well, not exactly. I mean...I have two candidates? But I’m not sure which one it is. I was doing research all night and found out that whoever had bitten you is actually  _ from _ Beacon Hills, not a rogue Alpha like we’d originally thought-” He’s interrupted by Scott’s loud, panicked voice.

_ “WHO, _ Stiles!” Stiles startled hard, jerking before leveling Scott with a look that told his friend  _ exactly _ how much he appreciated the delay of his information dump. “The Hales! Peter and Derek. Who else!?” He snapped, their raised voices drawing the attention of some of the students around them. The Hales, he found, were one of the oldest packs in California.

“The Hale’s dropped off the grid over two years ago.” And there it was. But Stiles had come prepared to deal with Scott’s doubts, which was where the printouts and photos came in. He pulled out a grainy black and white picture of a spiral carved into a deer carcass, handing it to Scott with a grim look. “Now they’re back, which means the alpha who turned you is too.” Stiles studied his friend’s face, not looking forward to divulging his theory regarding the reason  _ why _ the Hale’s had decided to return now. But he didn’t really have a choice, did he?

“And Scott? I think he’s looking for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Well, not  _ you _ in specific. I meant his betas.” He handed Scott some of the articles he’d found, paper clipped with pictures of those who had been bitten. Stiles nodded enthusiastically while Scott flipped through the six pages, eyes darting over the paper as he skimmed the articles. Scott took one look at the top picture and his head snapped up to stare at Stiles with wide eyes. “But Stiles...this is Lydia.” Scott choked out, blinking rapidly.

“Yup.” Stiles pops the ‘p’ just to be a little shit, leveling a baffled Scott with an eager grin. “Along with Jackson, Isaac, Boyd, Erica and  _ you _ . Don’t you get it, Scottie?” Stiles listed off, pointing to the corresponding names on the printout. They were their friends, their  _ pack. _ Scott gaped at Stiles’ excited figure, the wolf’s eyes lighting up as realization dawned on his face. His voice went breathy with shock as he verbalized Stiles’ findings.

“We all have the same Alpha.” 

“Exactly!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his arms out, his bony elbow narrowly missing a fellow student. The kid curled their lip at him after dodging the flailed limb, their eyes dropping to the floor in submission when Scott growled at them. God, sometimes Stiles loved having a werewolf for a best friend. It had been  _ years _ since the spastic teen was last bullied, lacrosse had been the biggest change. There was an unspoken rule that Jackson was the only one who was allowed to rough Stiles up on the field, the last player who’d knocked Stiles on his ass had been full-on  _ tackled _ by the furious kanima.

The look on the poor asshole’s face when Jackson went at him had been  _ priceless. _

“We gotta tell the others! How did you figure all this out anyway?” Scott blurted, looking not unlike an excited puppy. The question had Stiles’ mind screeching to an abrupt halt, there was _no way_ that he could tell his best friend that his girlfriend may or may not have been involved in the attempted capture of Scott’s alpha without a permit, and Stiles’ near-death experience by proxy. “Oh...well. You know me, just got bored and stumbled upon an article about the Hale fire.” Stiles shrugged, knowing Scott was distracted enough to buy it.

“Good job man, you’re amazing!” Stiles shrugged, face heating at the praise. They both jumped when the bell rang, warning the students that they had five minutes before school officially started. Scott pressed a hand to Stiles’ neck, bumping their foreheads together. “I should head to class, love you.” Stiles returned the sentiment, repeating those three - seemingly trivial - words back. But saying it never failed to coax an adorable lopsided smile onto his best friend’s lips, so Stiles made an effort to tell Scott that he loved him frequently.

Stiles lingered when Scott pulled away, watching his brother in all but blood jog down the corridor.

After his conversation with Scott, Stiles was cornered by Jackson while on his way to first hour, the kanima slamming him into a locker and blocking his escape in order to grill him for answers. Though Stiles  _ really _ didn’t want to explain the shit-fest that was last night. "What the hell happened? We heard gunshots and roaring so we left to get the others, but when we came back you...you were  _ gone _ and there were  _ bodies-" _ Jackson cut himself off, throat clicking when he swallowed. His eyes were suspiciously wet, and he was practically vibrating with the need to crowd into Stiles' space.

Jackson's hand raised, reaching out as if to touch Stiles and reassure himself that his eyes were  _ not _ deceiving him and the human was - in fact - still in one piece. He must've been  _ extremely _ worried, because it took Jackson a few seconds to recall that  _ multiple _ people were watching their exchange. Glowering at the floor, Whittmore begrudgingly lowered his arm, hands curling into a tight fists.

And while Jackson may have  _ severe _ issues with bringing himself to initiate physical contact when others were around, Stiles had no such qualms.

So he reached for Jackson instead, his hand settling firmly onto Whitmore's shoulder. The pad of the spastic teen's thumb gently brushed against Jackson's neck, easing the guilt from the kanima's rigid spine. "It was a stupid dare." Jackson mumbled, shuffling closer. The admission was as close to an apology as Stiles was going to get while surrounded by curious onlookers, but he didn't mind because the best bit would come later.

The human had zero doubt that Jackson would pull him aside sometime during their next pack bonding night in order to tell the teen how sorry he was, then Stiles would get some hard-earned pampering from their little band of misfits for at  _ least _ a week. Maybe he could even convince the group to indulge him with a puppy-pile or two. God, he  _ loved _ puppy-piles, lived for them even. Stiles was naturally an extremely tactile person - he enjoyed snuggles, cuddling, and the like - so puppy-piles were the perfect thing for a guy like him.

Jackson ended up walking him to class, clapping a hand onto the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezing reassuringly, before unrepentantly abandoning him in the open doorway. The school day passed agonizingly slowly, moving by like molasses. The worst of it occurred during chemistry, where Mr. Harris was being his usual asshole-self. Though lunch remained a bright spot during his day because of the entire pack - save one feral alpha - being in one place and happy.

By the time he’d gotten into his car and drove back home, he felt drained. Keeping secrets from his pack was  _ exhausting. _ Filling the gaps with white lies and half-truths, while hoping that none of the werewolves would pick up on it, was harder than one would believe it to be. He unlocked the front door and kicked it shut behind him, dropping his backpack onto the kitchen floor before moving to stick his head into the fridge.

A light tap at his back door caused him to startle, slamming the top of his head into the freezer door and cursing as he rose, rubbing at the spot that had been injured. Stiles crept towards the living room, peeking around the corner to stare out the glass sliding door for the culprit. He very nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw the massive black claw that was delicately tapping at the glass, red eyes peering into the room, honing in on him. The paw ceased its movement as the two just stared at each other.

Then, when Stiles showed no signs of moving, the alpha became visibly agitated. Claw hitting the glass harder and  _ harder _ until there was a loud crack, forcing Stiles into action lest the beast completely shatter his patio door. “Okay! Okay,  _ alright! _ I’m coming. Chill.” Stiles scrambled to the sliding door, unlocking it before warily pulling it open. The teen yelped, instantly regretting his decision when he was immediately dragged out of the house by the front of his shirt and deposited in the middle of his backyard.

The wolf began to leisurely circled Stiles, audibly sniffing him as it prowled, huffing to itself as it moved about. Something cold brushed up against the teen’s bare ankle, prompting Stiles to look down at the object in question. His breath hitched when he recognized the frayed edge of a steel coil, which was caked in dirt and dried blood. Without thinking, Stiles squatted down to grab the metal line, halting the werewolf in its tracks as it pulled at the wound on its hind leg.

A growl started up in the alpha’s chest but Stiles ignored the warning in favor of shuffling closer to the injury in order to see if he could help. The skin around the grappling hook was red and swelling up, feverish and looked incredibly painful. Not to mention that there was black sludge lazily oozing out of the wound, Stiles hazarded a guess that the wolf’s hand was in the same condition and that the alpha wouldn’t like the treatment that the teen was going to suggest. There were clear signs of wolfsbane poisoning in both punctures, which meant that he’d have to burn it out.

“Alrighty, big guy. We’re gonna need to take care of this like... _ yesterday _ . If the infection reaches your heart, it’ll kill you.” There was a snarl of protest and the limb jerked out of his careful grip, the alpha baring it’s intimidating set of teeth as it backed away from him. The fact that the massive werewolf was wary of a tiny, breakable human would be funny in any other situation. “But first, we need to figure out a safe way to take  _ those _ out.” Stiles nodded towards the flowered arrowheads that prevented the weapon from being pulled out. The alpha glared at him for a moment -probably evaluating his limited options- before giving in and stepping closer again, allowing Stiles to examine the harpoon in hopes of finding a way to get it off with minimal damage.

The alpha only twitched a couple times as Stiles prodded at the hook and never once growled at him like it’d had before. About five minutes into the inspection, Stiles found a small lever just under the flared head of the arrow and had to smother a laugh, though he had no doubt that the werewolf could smell his amusement. The mechanism was set up just like an umbrella, which was ludicrous if you asked Stiles, Hunters going after feral werewolves with umbrella guns. The alpha leveled Stiles with an unimpressed look when he voiced his thoughts.

Stiles could see the advantages of using this kind of weapon, the wolfsbane would keep the werewolf in beta shift - or full shift in the alpha’s case. Not to mention that the lever to disengage the mechanism was way too small for a werewolf’s claws to reach or even successfully maneuver into the correct position, making it next to impossible to release. Stiles pushed the metal tab to the right and slid it down the shaft, relieved to see the claws slowly closing as he moved. When they finally laid flat, Stiles latched them in place then pulled the arrow back out the way it went in until the limb was free of the metal.

He did the same thing with the wolf’s arm, albeit a bit faster considering the fact that he knew what he was doing and was more confident in his actions. Once free, the alpha had made to leave, but was stopped by Stiles grabbing onto its stupidly firm bicep. The gesture halted its escape, the werewolf gaze locked onto the point of physical contact for a tense moment before the alpha raised its crimson eyes to give the human a questioning look. Stiles was quick to explain himself, the words practically tripping over each other in a rush to get out.

“We’re not done yet. The next part is going to be the most difficult to complete.” Stiles warned the alpha, taking a deep breath before explaining further. “I need to burn the wolfsbane out of the wound, which means holding a flame to the injury. It’s going to hurt, but if we don’t do it, you  _ will _ die.” He waits for the wolf’s decision, watching several emotions flicker over the alpha’s - surprisingly expressive - face. Its features settled on something like determination, and Stiles gave the werewolf an encouraging grin.

“Okay. I think I have a blowtorch in my garage. Just give me a minute to go get it.” Stiles takes a step away from the alpha and notices the wolf following. He stopped and the wolf froze too, the distance between them still carefully maintained.  _ “You _ stay  _ here.” _ When the alpha just stared, Stiles took that as an agreement and nodded to himself, turning to make his way to the garage. That is, until he heard soft footsteps behind him, still following. He pivoted, setting his hands on his hips in preparation to unload a verbal lashing upon the werewolf.

_ “You _ need to stay _ here. _ You won’t fit in the garage and, if you haven’t noticed, you’re leaking black  _ yuck _ all over the yard. I seriously do  _ not _ want that crap in my garage cause then I’ll have to clean it up. It would make things much easier if you would  _ stay here.” _ Stiles made sure that the wolf knew that he was not kidding, his tone stern. Even if the alpha couldn’t understand the words, then it would certainly read his emotions and movements to interpret what Stiles wants.

“Stay... _ please?” _ Stiles pointed at the alpha, then at the ground before holding his hand up, palm out to signal the wolf to not move. The werewolf blinked at him for a minute before slowly crouching, as if to advertise to Stiles its intentions, planting its butt on the ground and settling in. Stiles thanked every God he can think of off the top of his head - which is a surprisingly large amount - and took that as his cue to collect the necessary supplies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Co-Author has been on a roll with making content for this fic lately, it helps that we sat down and actually hashed out a rough plotline to follow, but I still have to go though the chapters and clean them up before I can post so just bare with me, yeah? Oh! And I recently posted the first chapter of another fic if anyone is interested, it's not Sterek but some of you might find it worth a read. It's a rare-pair fic that takes place in The Walking Dead universe, the pairing is Dean Winchester/Daryl Dixon. If you really like my writing, give this pairing a chance? You never know, you might fall in love with it like I did. Feel free to leave a review! Stay weird my lovelies!

Stiles had rushed to the garage, hoping that the alpha’s patience didn’t run out before he found the damn blowtorch. He moved about the room, scrambling towards the packed shelves in order to start ripping into boxes in the hopes of finding the much-needed item. Stiles didn’t think that a lighter would cut it this time. Several boxes into his fruitless search, Stiles found his old toy sheriff badge. A small smile stretched across his face before he was startled by a loud bang, causing him to jump and drop the plastic pin.

He spun to face the garage door, which rattled as if something had hit it and, in one of the many tiny windows at the top of the door, was a familiar muzzle. One vibrant red eye was switching from peering anxiously into the room, to glaring at the barrier between them like it had personally offended the alpha. Stiles hastily went to the button next to the door leading into the house and hit it before the werewolf got any ideas about property damage, allowing the door to fold open, revealing the wolf pacing before the slowly rising obstruction.

“Are you an idiot!?  _ Anyone _ could see you, out in the open like that! Get in here!” The teen hissed, frantically waving the  _ massive fucking werewolf  _ into the garage. Stiles smacked the button again to seal off the room from the prying eyes in his neighborhood, wincing when he noticed the unnatural black puddles that decorated the driveway. Stiles felt about ready to introduce his own head to the nearest wall in frustration. “This is  _ exactly _ why I wanted you to stay in the backyard.” Stiles scowled, not looking forward to the extra work it would take to cover up the unexpected visit  _ at all. _

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. With a defeated sigh, he stepped forward and there was a crunch from underneath his foot. He lifted his leg, staring down at the - now cracked - shiny plastic badge. He knelt down to grab it, getting the sudden impulse to look to his left. Stiles visibly brightened when he spotted the blowtorch sitting innocently on one of the lower shelves, sandwiched between two boxes of stuffed animals. He exhaled a breathy laugh of disbelief, abandoning the broken toy in order to snag the metal canister. 

It was moments like this where Stiles believed that some sort of higher power was at work.

He held up the torch with an air of accomplishment, brandishing it at the alpha with a wide grin. “Looks like we’re in business!” The teen impatiently beckoned the werewolf closer, the alpha hesitantly complying. The Hale beast sniffed at Stiles as the teen fiddled with the blowtorch, successfully turning it on after three attempts before carefully grabbing hold of the other’s furry hand. Stiles fought the urge to gag as he lowered the condensed flame onto the hole in the werewolf’s appendage, the slippery skin sizzling with the heat. 

The alpha’s whole body stiffened, a soft pained noise in the back of his throat. Surprisingly, the werewolf didn’t even attempt to rip his hand out of Stiles’ grip, the alpha acting as though the human’s gentle hold were iron. “I know big guy, we’re almost done. I promise.” Stiles murmured, absentmindedly running the pad of his thumb over the short, soft fur that covered the alpha’s knuckles as purple wisps rose from the gaping wound. The teen heaved a relieved sigh when the werewolf’s skin started to sluggishly knit itself back together, which meant that the poison was more or less neutralized.

“There you go dude, just gotta take care of your leg and then you’re good as new!” Stiles relinquished his grasp on the alpha’s hand, kneeling down in front of the hole in the werewolf’s unfairly solid calf. Stiles’ fingers curled around the alpha’s knee, both offering and taking comfort, before positioning the nozzle of the torch over the wound. Stiles jolted a little when a clawed hand clamped onto his shoulder, the alpha’s sharp nails carefully arranged to minimize the risk of accidental injury to the human. It’s grip was tight, but not painfully so.

“Easy big guy, I got you. You’re okay.” The teen surprised himself when he removed his hand from the werewolf's leg to instead place it on top of the furred appendage that weighed his right shoulder down, absentmindedly making a mental note of how the alpha’s hand dwarfed his own. Stiles wasn’t sure  _ why  _ he felt the need to soothe the werewolf, but he figured that providing a little reassurance couldn’t hurt. He kept his hand on the wolf’s until the gaping hole started to close, switching off the blowtorch before dutifully setting it aside.

The werewolf stayed rooted in place when Stiles cautiously pushed to his feet, mindful of the deadly claws that adorned the hand that was still occupying the majority of his shoulder. “There you go buddy, all done.” Stiles informed, raising his empty hands for the alpha to see as proof. The werewolf leaned in to sniff at the teen’s fingers for a moment before a pink tongue slid out from between sharp canines to lave spit onto the pale digits. Stiles’ nose scrunched at the sheer amount of saliva that was being deposited onto his hands. 

“Ew, that’s  _ so _ unsanitary. And I would know, I’ve been to  _ all sorts  _ of places that definitely aren’t good for  _ anyone’s _ health. Not to mention the gore I usually get covered in when our ragtag pack fights monsters, it’s a rough way of living but I like to think I make it work-” Stiles abruptly cut himself off when the alpha stepped away, the hulking furry mass heading straight for the door that led into the house. Stiles made a choked sound of protest, scrambling after the werewolf. “Hey, no! You won’t fit, you’d be like a bull in a china shop and I can’t risk damaging anything- oh. Yeah, that works too.”

Stiles blinked owlishly when the werewolf hit the button that controlled the garage door, which dutifully started to rise. When the metal obstruction was just barely halfway up, the alpha ducked down on all fours to squeeze out, taking the spastic teen off-guard. Clearly, the wolf didn’t care about whether or not he was seen, but Stiles was well and truly screwed if someone managed to catch a glimpse of the  _ massive feral werewolf  _ leaving the  _ Sheriff’s _ garage. The teen bent over in order to avoid smacking his head on the garage door, following the werewolf outside so he could drag it out of sight and verbally lay into the wolf for its clear lack of sneaking skills.

“Dude! Someone might see you…” Stiles trailed off when he was met with nothing but his empty driveway, no werewolf in sight.

* * *

Stiles' dad got home at around eight in the evening and he knew something was wrong just from the look on the older man’s face. He left the front door open behind him before crooking his finger to beckon Stiles closer, his other hand resting on his hip. The energetic teen bounced over to his Dad, who clamped his hands onto Stiles’ shoulders and he turned the teen to face the porch. “Can you explain to me  _ why _ there’s a dead squirrel on our welcome mat?” His Father drawled, but Stiles didn’t have an answer for him. The teen blankly stared at the small woodland creature, his mind going a mile a minute in an attempt to solve the mystery before him.

“I swear to god if this is another  _ Fluffy _ situation.” The sheriff relinquished his hold on the teen in favor of pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb in exasperation. Stiles crossed his arm defensively at the mention of the stray dog from last summer. “How was I supposed to know I had adopted a feral wolf-dog? It looked so  _ cute.” _ He’d happily applied the name that Hagrid called his three headed dog to his new companion. It had seemed fitting because the wolf-dog’s dense grey fur made it look well... _ fluffy. _ After he’d taken it in and nursed the canine back to health, he’d released it back into the wild, though it would pop by every so often. Each visit resulted in some manner of dead animal winding up on their doorstep, ranging from bunnies to raccoons.

“I haven’t even seen any anima-  _ oh shit! _ ” Stiles abruptly recalled his encounter with the alpha from earlier that evening and the pieces began to click together. Could that werewolf have done this? After all, he did help the beast with its wounds. Though, the chosen prey was a bit small compared to the game that the massive creature could potentially go after. Maybe it  _ was _ one of Fluffy’s gifts. “I’ll clean it up. Don’t worry daddy-o.” The teen saluted the fond man before shooing him into the house, informing him of the foil-covered leftovers in the fridge.

Stiles picked the poor animal up and brought it around back to place it just past the tree line among a cluster of colorful flowers, covering the tiny corpse with more vibrant blossoms. He hated needless violence and the death of such a small, helpless creature broke his heart. He heard the snap of a branch from further in the forest and jolted upright, squinting into the darkening woodland in search of the cause of the startling noise. “Stiles, get in here! It’s late!” His dad’s loud voice made Stiles flinch so hard that he stepped on his untied shoelace and fell into the bush next to him with a loud squawk. To add insult to injury, it took the teen a hot minute to fight his way out of the dense foliage.

Once he’d brushed himself off to clear any dirt, twigs or leaves, he spared one last lingering glance at the treeline before making his way into the house. Stiles slipped into the back door, locking it behind him to make himself feel better despite the fact that the massive werewolf could easily get in if it really wanted to. He shuffled into the kitchen to join his Dad at the table, the older man’s gaze scrutinizing him for a moment. “You look tired. What’s going on?” Stiles asks before his father could bring up his clear lack of energy, grabbing his own fork to poke at the heated plate in front of his dad. He gives the teen a playful glare, swatting at his loaded fork with his own empty cutlery. 

“Someone spotted a fugitive in town and there were reports of someone poking around the old Hale house. I have to cover a double shift.” Stiles had to work to keep the wince off of his face. He  _ was _ one of the people that had been there and hated that he had a hand in making it so his dad couldn’t spend more time at home. “Jeez, I’m sorry. When are you leaving?” Even though his dad wouldn’t understand why he was apologizing, he still felt better doing so. Though, Stiles couldn’t get the first sentence out of his head.  _ A fugitive? Who? _ He was startled out of thoughts by his father’s answer. 

“Around eleven tonight. I was thinking about taking a quick nap after dinner before heading back out.” Stiles approved of the plan and nodded vigorously while taking another stab at the reheated food on his dad's plate. They finished the meal in mutual silence, the sheriff placing the empty plate in the dishwasher before following Stiles as the teen moved to the stairs. Stiles wrapped his dad up into a tight hug and bid him goodnight before retreating to his room to grab some clothes to change into, he really wanted to just shower the entire confusing day off. 

It was quick but hot, just like that fateful night after the Hale house incident, Stiles tried not to think about it too much. When Stiles felt less like he was falling to pieces, he groggily climbed out of the shower and relocated to his chilly bedroom, already mentally making plans for the weekend. Maybe he’d bring his dad breakfast. Knowing his father, the man would most likely be at the station until at least noon. Mind made up, Stiles climbed into bed and snuggled in. In his exhaustion he’d missed the fact that his window was open, ruby eyes watching the teen’s room from the dark treeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished up chapter six, so I'll be posting that next Wednesday and we'll see how it goes from there. I've suddenly become incredibly busy because I'm moving at the end of this month and there's a lot that needs to happen before then. So updates will be slow, wish me luck!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder for those of you that are upset about Stiles not telling his dad anything...Stiles went all the way to MEXICO without telling his dad in canon. Just saying. A reader of mine decided to bring up a few flaws in my story, and while I under stand where they're coming from...after further inspection of the points they made, I have to respectfully disagree with all but two of the issues they had with this story.
> 
> Stay weird my lovelies!

Stiles parked his jeep in the open spot near the back of the lot, killing the rattling engine with a twist of his wrist before climbing out. He wasn’t going to stay at the station long since he had another dead animal to deal with, the teen had woken up due to a cold breeze turning the inside of his room into an icy tundra. After having shivered himself awake, he had a lengthy mental debate in order to convince himself to crawl out of his warm bundle of blankets. Eventually, he did manage to do just that, grumpily shutting his window before trudging down the stairs and into the kitchen.

A red blur outside his sliding back door caught his attention, making him pause mid-step. His lips thinned into a determined line as he warily inched closer, releasing the breath he’d been unconsciously holding when he realized that it was some sort of woodland animal. And, judging by the amount of blood the furry creature was covered in, it was _very_ dead. The creature was laid out on his patio like an offering, the chosen victim being that of an unfortunate bunny. Poor Thumper. Stiles was surprised to see the lack of a puddle of blood underneath the crimson-stained hare. 

Unlike the last gift, this one was relatively clean, like it had been bled before being brought there. He retreated into the house to dig out a discarded plastic bag from the cabinet under the sink, using it to carefully pick up the rabbit and carry it over to the same place he had left the squirrel. Only...the other animal was missing, it had suddenly vanished. Stiles seriously doubted that it had gotten up and left under its own power, which meant that some wild animal probably took it. It made him hesitant to place the rabbit there to meet the same fate.

Instead, he brought it to a different spot. He built a bed of grasses before laying the animal down among the twisting roots of a young Redwood tree on the edge of his property before covering the corpse with some freshly picked daisies. After completing the makeshift service, Stiles went and did his morning routine, teeth brushing and such. He put together a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast before taking his daily dose of Adderall and settling down at the table to enjoy his meal. He had a couple different stops to make over the course of the day, starting with a health café in town.

Which brought him to his current predicament. He was standing outside his vehicle in the parking lot of the police station trying to figure out how to juggle a large coffee, hot chocolate, and a container holding an egg white, ham and swiss omelet. His dad would hate him, but at least he’d be alive to do so. The elder Stilinski had always had bad cholesterol. He almost dropped the whole ensemble when he spotted Kate and Chris Argent walking up the steps to the station and entering. He knew that they’d most likely want to speak with his father and if he wanted to know what was said, he couldn’t walk into the sheriffs office with an _omelet._

He awkwardly deposited the food back into the passenger seat before climbing in himself and shoving the key into the ignition. When the engine spluttered to life, he backed out of his parking space and left the lot. He already had an idea of what to get to ensure that his dad spilled, the man had a weak spot for a certain treat. By the time he returned, the big black SUV the Argents arrived in was gone. Which was a relief because Kate tended to give him a bad vibe, and he’d rather not have her in his vicinity. Stiles clambered out of his jeep and, by some miracle, he successfully entered the building without dropping a single item.

He confidently pushed into his father’s office, kicking the door shut behind him, knowing that the illusion of privacy would help encourage his father to spill the tea. “Hey Dad! Brought you a little something.” Stiles chirped joyfully, unloading his haul onto the only bare space left on the otherwise cluttered desk. The sheriff gave him a grateful smile, plucking up the paper cup to take a substantial swallow of the black coffee before opening the styrofoam container to see what his son had brought him. Stiles watched the five stages of grief play out across his dad’s face before heaved a resigned sigh, reluctantly picking up a plastic fork to dig into the meal.

Stiles started up small talk about mundane, everyday things as the man ate in order to ease the way for his inevitable line of questioning. Once his father had pushed away the empty box, Stiles picked it up and haphazardly tossed it into the trash. It was time to get the big guns out. “You know what pairs _super awesome_ with coffee, Dad?” Stiles pulled three pale blue boxes from a matching plastic bag that he’d placed on the plastic chair next to him, each package containing a dozen donuts. He smiled fondly as his father’s face lit up in pure delight, unstacking the boxes before opening the nearest container to collect a sprinkled cake donut. 

With his plan now set in motion, Stiles claimed a chocolate glazed donut for himself and began the sensitive interrogation. “Hey, couldn’t help but notice that the Argents popped in earlier. I heard that they usually keep to themselves unless they need a permit. Do you know why they stopped by?” He asked, careful to keep his demeanor nonchalant and tone even. His father was really rather good at spotting his plots before he’d even had the chance to act on them, which meant that he had to tread carefully in order to avoid suspicion.

His dad narrowed his eyes at the teen, gaze bouncing from the donuts to Stiles and back again as he considered his options. He could practically see the sheriff processing the situation and the potential underlying ulterior motives. “Why are you so interested all of a sudden?” His father began cautiously, testing the waters and Stiles knew that his answer would either make or break his investigation. “Just stumbled upon the family while doing research for a history project.” Not too much of a stretch, he was _researching_ the _history_ of the family after all. This seemed to calm his dad a bit, but not enough to dispel the suspicion that was painted on his father’s face.

“And what do the Argents have to do with your project?” The sheriff cautiously reached for another donut and, since Stiles desperately needed information, he didn't swat the man away. Though, he found the urge to do so extremely hard to resist. “Can’t look into the history of werewolves without the Argents coming up nowadays, Dad. They _are_ a well known hunting family.” Stiles flippantly waved a hand, patiently sipping his piping hot cocoa. However, his leg began to bounce, betraying his nerves. The older Stilinski released a put-upon sigh before leaning back in his chair and Stiles knew that he had him.

“They asked about the Rogue Alpha that’s been running around town and offered their family’s services.” An alpha? Could it have been the one at the Hale house? The one that he’d helped yesterday afternoon? That didn’t explain the hunter’s illegal means of trying to collect the Beast. Who wanted the alpha and why? Who was hiding beneath the dark fur? Was it Derek? Or Peter? So many questions with no clean-cut answers, there was so much he wanted to ask. But, first things first.

“Did they want a permit to go after it?” Stiles decided to start off small and see if there were any permits out on the werewolf already. If there was one, it would no doubt be held by the Argents. His dad thought about it for a few quiet moments, most likely going over his conversation with the pair. “Well, Chris wasn’t keen on it but Kate pushed for one. I told them that they’d have to wait for a judge. I remember being caught off guard by her insistence.” He was right, that was quite odd. Not to mention the fact that Kate Argent had come back to Beacon Hills around the same time that first reports of the Rogue Alpha began popping up.

“Then what? Did they ask about the Hale’s?” Stiles knew that he’d made a huge mistake bringing them up the moment his dad’s face screwed up in confusion and skepticism, his expression becoming guarded as steely eyes cut over to the teen. He was well aware of the Hale situation, how they’d disappeared after the death of Laura and how incriminating that seemed. But something in Stiles was telling him that there was more to the story. “What? What do the Hale’s have to do with this?” And there was his father’s interrogation voice, demanding answers.

“Nothing.” His dad didn’t believe him for one second and Stiles suddenly felt like a pinned bug under the man’s searching gaze. “Stiles…” He began slowly and the teen had to resist the sudden urge to fidget. “Have you seen Peter Hale? Did he threaten you?” And that...was _not_ what he was expecting to come out of the sheriff’s mouth. Maybe a stern scolding or disappointment, but certainly not _concern._ Then the words registered in his lagging brain and Stiles stalled out, stuck mulling over the sentence. Peter was...

“WHAT!? Peter Hale is here!? In town, right now!?” Stiles’ voice rocketed up three octaves, his father’s eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the overreaction, but Stiles was too stunned to care at the moment. “Wait. Why do you think that he’d come after _me?”_ The teen was baffled that his dad believed that Peter was a danger to him. Stiles had never even met the man before, _hell_ , he hadn’t even known what the werewolf looked like until the teen had looked him up. Besides, going by the pictures he’d found, the man had a superiority streak a mile wide, so the teen doubted that Peter would waste his time with someone as unimportant as Stiles.

“If he was going to do something, you’d be a great place to start, being the sheriff’s son and all that.” His dad bit out through clenched teeth, as if the thought _alone_ was enough to send him into a homicidal rage. “Oh.” Stiles breathed for lack of anything better to say, it was abundantly clear that a change of subject was in order unless Stiles wanted to become an accessory to murder. Then the proverbial lightbulb went off and he realized something. His father was worried about Peter _because_ he was the fugitive. The one that had been mentioned last night. They were hunting for the werewolf. Peter most likely had an open permit out on him so any hunters in the area could legally attack him. Stiles could only hope that the contract stated that the police wanted the man _alive._

They sat in mutual silence for a few minutes before the elder Stilinski broke it. “So, I take it that you haven't seen him?” This time Stiles didn’t have to lie, well, not entirely. The teen didn’t need his dad knowing that Stiles suspected foul play when it came to the Hale’s. “No. I didn’t even know that he was in town.” Well, he’d _suspected,_ but now it was confirmed by his father. It was too bad that he didn’t know where his nephew Derek was. Regardless of that though, Peter was still currently Stiles’ number one suspect for who the Rouge Alpha was. But there was only one thing that didn’t fit into the profile he’d carefully built. If Peter was the right hand of Talia, then wouldn’t he know how to control the alpha instincts? It was the one thing that didn’t fit quite right, the act of biting a bunch of teenagers. Maybe he wanted a pack? But then, why go after _kids?_

Stiles was giving himself a headache, he needed to find Peter and get some answers. Not to mention Derek. Where did he factor into this mess? If the Hales were innocent, like Stiles suspected they were, why did they run? Were they threatened? Did they think that they were going to be next? “Thanks for the company, Dad. Though, I got some other errands to run so I gotta head out. Take care of yourself.” Stiles declared with a bone-popping stretch, taking the boxes of donuts in order to relocate them to the coffee station. The sheriff gave his son a warm smile, following him out of the office and leaning up against the doorframe to watch Stiles expertly dodge donut-hungry cops.

The kid drew a crowd to the small table near the front as he set down and opened the three boxes of goodies, before expertly diving out of the way of grabby hands and dancing towards the exit. Though, just before leaving, he turned back to his dad with his hand still on the door and an evil grin on his lips. “Parish _will_ tell me if you sneak a third.” The sheriff didn’t need to know what the teen was referring to. He trusted his deputy with his life, but Stiles could be persuasive. The push bar underneath Stiles’ hand suddenly shifted as the glass panel swung open. The teen stumbled forward with a startled yelp but, thankfully, he was caught by his forearms before he could fall down the concrete steps. 

“Thanks man, I-” He cut himself off because when he raised his eyes from the ground to address his savior, he came face-to-face with one Peter Hale.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I changed the mechanics of Mountain Ash. It's not a barrier that supernatural creatures can't cross, it's more of a enhancement to make sure they can't get out of cells and cuffs and such. So it's usually infused with metal to make sure that supernatural creatures can't bend or break the metal. Thanks for reading! Stay weird my lovelies!

After the initial scare, everything went surprisingly smoothly. Upon spotting the elder Hale, all cops in the station had their firearms in hand and trained at the werewolf, including his father. While Peter had been held at gunpoint, Stiles was ordered to move away, the teen scrambling to obey the yelling adults. The werewolf easily let go of Stiles’ arms and allowed the kid to stumble away, voluntarily leaving himself open to a barrage of bullets. Which didn’t seem like something a person guilty of murder would do. The man was quickly cuffed and moved to the cage for further questioning. Parrish was told to inform the higher-ups about Peter’s capture and, since the case had crossed state lines, it was way above their small town’s jurisdiction.

Stiles lingered near his father as he watched Peter being taken into the back. The cage was what one would expect from police lockup. It looked similar to the drunk tank, the only difference being the thicker, mountain ash infused bars covering even the brick walls. Stiles had seen it briefly a couple of times, but thankfully, that was enough for him to know the way to the room containing it. It was risky to talk to the werewolf while in the station, but with the werewolf in the cage it meant that it was relatively safe to approach, and the teen didn’t know when the next opportunity to talk to Peter would pop up. So, as long as he didn’t get within grabbing distance, he would be okay.

Using the chaos to his advantage, the teen made his way towards the back, casually grabbing a donut and snagging Parrish’s card as he passed the Hellhound’s desk. He wandered towards the bathrooms, but once the coast was clear, he redirected towards the door leading to lockup. He peeked around the corner, recognizing his dad among the turned backs chattering a bit further down the hallway. He crept down the hall, finding the correct door and ensuring that it was empty of any officers, before tapping the card to the lock. It buzzed quietly and clicked, allowing him entrance. He softly shut the door behind himself, sighing in relief when someone didn’t immediately barge in yelling about legalities.

He allowed himself a brief moment of celebration, doing a tiny fist pump, before pivoting to face the cage. He startled hard when he caught the intense arctic blue gaze of one Peter Hale, putting the hand holding the card to his chest in an attempt to calm his frantic heart. “Jesus, you scared me.” The man merely lifted an immaculate brow at him, only looking away from Stiles’ own honey brown eyes to follow the card as the teen tucked it into his front right pocket. Stiles cleared his throat uncomfortably and immediately regained the older man’s piercing gaze. “You’re Peter Hale, right?” He knew who the man was, but just he wanted Peter to know that _Stiles_ knew who he was.

“Yes.” Peter’s voice was smooth and soft with a hint of something more dangerous lurking under the surface. It was intoxicating and Stiles found himself relaxing involuntarily before catching himself and straightening. When he focused back onto Peter, the werewolf had a constipated look on his face, several complex emotions mixing until they were indecipherable. Then his expression fell, face going eerily blank. “And you’re Mieczysław Stilinski, correct?” Stiles’ heart stopped, breath hitching at the sound of his birth name rolling effortlessly off the man’s tongue.

“I uh...yeah, how did you..?” The teen’s mouth suddenly went dry and the air in the room began to thin. For some reason he’d never thought that Peter would do some homework of his own. Stiles had no idea why he’d just assumed that Peter was innocent, without even meeting the guy too. Maybe Stiles _was_ a target, maybe he’d gotten this whole thing all wrong and he was standing before a ruthless murderer who knew his _name_ . Stiles could only imagine what else the man had dug up. His class schedule, his address, his friends addresses. Was he in danger? Were his _friends and family_ in danger for being associated with him? He should have stopped while he was ahead, let the mystery go and found something else to occupy his time. _Too late now._ A voice in the back of his head whispered. _He knows._

The beige walls started to melt around him and Stiles gripped his hair, tugging roughly at his fistful in a vain attempt to ground himself. He was distantly aware that he was having a panic attack, something that hadn’t happened since he was little, so he was unequipped to deal with his rapid spiral into hysteria. “How could you have..?” He gasped out between inhales, mind swimming in what felt like molasses. Nothing made sense, the world had suddenly tilted and Stiles was left floundering in this new, terrifying environment.

Before he knew it, he was on the ground in front of the bars, wheezing as his lungs spasmed painfully. Through blurry vision, he could just barely make out Peter, who was crouched as close to his fallen form as the bars allowed. His mouth was moving, a concerned furrow between his brows, but Stiles couldn’t hear the words over the rush of water in his ears. He felt like he was drowning. Sinking further and further until his lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen. Then he registered a voice, low and soothing. “You’re just fine, Little Red. You’re in the police station in Beacon Hills, it’s 9:36 am and you’re with me, Peter Hale.” He felt the voice drag him from the whirlpool like a lifeline, the feeling of becoming lucid again was like breaching the surface of choppy waters, leaving him coughing and gasping for air.

Peter’s face cleared and, with as close as the man was, Stiles noticed that there was slightly lighter skin covering the majority of the right side of his face. It took an embarrassing amount of time for his muddled brain to identify the odd marking as old scar tissue. He used the difference in skin texture to ground himself, wondering what it would feel like to touch it, if it would be smooth or rough. If the skin would be more or less sensitive to touch. If it would be the same temperature as the rest of the body or colder because of the damage. If it still hurt after seven years. It was most likely because of this line of thinking that he found himself reaching out towards Peter’s face before remembering himself, where he was, who he was dealing with and _why_. 

Stiles brought his hand back to his chest and neglected to acknowledge the shock written across the other man’s face. The damn werewolf could probably smell on Stiles what he was about to do. “ _Please_ call me Stiles.” The teen was practically pleading with the older male and Peter got the same look on his face as earlier, a complicated mash of emotion in his pale eyes that Stiles had no hope of ever deciphering. It was quiet for a few beats before Peter’s face morphed into the guise of a smirk. It was obvious that Peter didn’t really put anything behind the expression, that it was simply used as a mask. 

“If that’s what you want.” Stiles nodded frantically, probably doing an awesome impression of a bobblehead as he did. The brunette hoped that the werewolf would just forget about the embarrassing lapse of control if Stiles just ignored that it had ever happened. The whole affair was niggling at the back of his brain though. He just couldn’t let it go. The thing that stood out the most, was the fact that strangers weren’t normally able to talk him down mid-panic and Peter had handled it perfectly on the first try.

Leaving the thought for later analysis, the teen took a few minutes to breathe before sitting up and eventually pushing himself to his feet. He took a few extra seconds to gather his wits before feeling confident enough to continue their previously abandoned conversation. “Are you the Alpha?” He wants -no- _needs_ to know. He needs to know who is after his friends. If this man was the one who had helped him at the house and who Stiles helped later in return. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite get the response he wanted from the werewolf. “Does it matter? I’m dangerous either way.” Stiles stared at Peter, mouth agape, before collecting himself and sighing. The older male apparently didn’t feel very corporate at the moment... _great._

“Okay..?” He drew the word out uncertainly, unsure of how to respond to the vague threat. He wasn’t positive as to whether or not he could trust Peter yet, and the older male’s sketchy behavior wasn’t exactly helping Stiles make a decision. “Be careful around the Argents. You don’t want to catch their attention.” Peter’s next statement was unexpected, pulling Stiles from his thoughts and back to the present, back to the man locked behind bars. He debated trusting a man currently under arrest for the death of his own niece and shook himself. Of course Peter was innocent, surely he wouldn’t kill one of his only remaining family members for the Alpha power…

_Right?_

“What, why?” He agreed that the Argents were acting kind of suspicious, he’d heard the rumors that traveled around the station about them. Especially Gerard, who’d been caught selling illegal firearms several times in the past. And his daughter Kate, who had been accused of decimating entire packs without a permit. Nothing stuck, but the teen had no doubt that she was guilty. There was nothing concrete on Victoria, but there was just something off about the woman. Stiles shuddered and came to the conclusion that Peter was right to worry about the hunters. He just wanted to know _why_ the werewolf was wary of the unnerving family. “Are they after you? Are you in danger?” Peter’s empty smirk shifted into a mean grin as he stepped closer to the bars separating them. It was as if the wolf believed that, if he stood close enough, that he could just slip through the metal cage.

“Lets just say that certain members of that family have a habit of ignoring their precious code.” _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_. We hunt those who hunt us. Stiles was familiar with the age old saying, it was a law that almost all hunters lived by. He’d heard it multiple times from several hunters who had gone to his father for a permit, as well as from the mouth of Allison Argent herself. “What do you mean?” Stiles’ amber eyes brighten with understanding, reading between the lines of the warning.

If Peter thought that Stiles needed to tread carefully, there must’ve been a _reason._

“Did they do something?” The question came out as a whisper, the teen instinctively moving closer to the bars. If the Argents had done something illegal then it would be the scandal of the _century._ They were an old family, having been in Beacon Hills for almost as long as the Hale pack. Peter gave the boy an impressed look, taken aback by the teen’s intellect. “You have to figure it out yourself. If I’m the one to tell you, you won’t believe me.” Stiles highly doubted that, but didn’t feel like arguing with the man about it, so he left the statement alone and changed tactics.

“Come on. Just give me something to work with. I’m on _your_ side.” Stiles was pleading again and Peter gave him an inquisitive once over, inhaling deeply. He visibly debated whether or not to tell Stiles anything before coming to a conclusion. He steeled his expression, becoming more serious. “Look into Laura’s death. You’ll find answers there.” The teen found himself surprised by Peter bringing up his niece, who knew that the girl’s death would lead him to the answers he needed. He immediately began planning where he was going to look, absentmindedly extending his pastry occupied hand to the werewolf. The Boston cream donut, that he’d snatched when stealing the keycard, laying temptingly in the flat of his palm.

Stiles continued muttering to himself under his breath, completely missing the incredulous look on Peter’s face. The wolf cleared his throat, regaining the excitable teen’s attention. “I can’t reach it.” Stiles’ gaze darted between the pastry and the werewolf, before making the bold choice to step closer. Stiles carefully maneuvered his hand between the bars, to avoid smushing or dropping the pastry, and offered the donut a second time. He was caught off guard by Peter suddenly grabbing his wrist, catching the bakery item the teen had dropped, with his free hand. “Let go.” Stiles tugged his arm a few times, testing the other man’s grip. Unfortunately, Peter was a werewolf to his mere human capabilities, so he wasn’t going anywhere until Peter decided to let go.

Before Stiles could spiral into another panic attack, the wolf was releasing him, the brunette stumbling backwards. He _just_ barely managed to catch his balance, gearing up to begin yelling abuse at the asshole, but stopped when he saw Peter studying the chocolate drenched donut before taking a large bite of the filled pastry. His expression brightened as he chewed, swallowing with a smile. “Boston cream. My favorite.” Stiles went bright red for reasons he didn’t want to address, fiddling nervously with the hem of his sweater. He opened his mouth before closing it again, thinking better of trying to defend his decision, and turned to leave. 

“Oh, and Stiles?” The grin in the man’s voice made the teen halt, his back facing Peter, his hand hovering over the brass knob that led to his escape. He let the silence draw out, an open invitation for the wolf to continue speaking. “You know where to find me.” Stiles stood still in front of the door, astounded by Peter’s audacity. Obviously Stiles knew where he would be, trapped in the cage, where he was now because there was no _possible_ way he’d be able to get out. The teen scoffed, stating a sarcastic agreement, before cracking the door open and slipping through.

*** * ***

It was late when Stiles finally arrived back at his house. Thankfully, there were no more surprises that day so the rest of his errands went smoothly. By the time he’d said hello to his dad and flopped down onto the couch, it was nearing six in the afternoon. Stiles flipped on the TV, surfing channels and looking for one that sparked an interest with him. His dad went to sit in the lounge chair when his phone suddenly rang. He made a funny face at Stiles that the teen smiled at before moving into the kitchen to take the call. Even with the TV on and his dad in another room, Stiles could hear his muted voice speaking with whoever was on the other line.

 _“-ust got news that Peter Hale-”_ Stiles shot upright at the familiar name and frantically hit the back button to get more information on what the wolf was involved in. _“-cessfully escaped police custody just earlier this afternoon. Reports say that…''_ The teen tuned out again, remote falling from numb fingers as his father rushed back into the room. With one look at Stiles’ face, his dad knew that the teen was aware that he had to leave and why. He sternly told Stiles to be safe and lock the doors before the elder Stilinski was heading out. The sound of the car pulling out of the driveway had the brunette coming back to himself, turning the TV off with a click before moving throughout the house to check all the doors and windows.

It wasn’t until he sat back down onto the couch that Stiles remembered that he still had Parrish’s keycard in his possession. He hisses a curse, frustrated that even despite the many reminders he’d given himself throughout the day, he never actually ended up returning it. Just what Stiles needed, for his dad to find the stolen card and start asking questions. He shoved his hand into his right front pocket, digging into the cloth, but his fingers only grasped at open air. He froze, staring down at his pocket in disbelief. No way. _No fucking way_.

It was gone, his pocket was empty.


End file.
